Twenty Marlboro, Barely Touched
by sbrianson
Summary: Nobody is infinitely strong, and everyone – including Remus Lupin – has a breaking point. Sometimes it is the trivial things which are the most painful, and the smallest of things that can make you snap. Slash and angst.


"Twenty Marlboro, Barely Touched"

Pairing: Sirius / Remus Lupin

Rating: "M" for slash and severe angst.

DISCLAIMER: This story is fictional – that's F-I-C-T-I-O-N. It never happened, and is not real. It is the product of my own imagination. It contains descriptions of male slash (that's male/male homosexual relations). If you do not like this type of content, or if you find homosexuality or its practice offensive, please click the "Back" button or close your Internet browser NOW, and do not read any further. All characters and copyrights are owned by J.K Rowling and Warner Brothers™ (AOL Time Warner), but this story is owned by me and is all my own work.

* * *

Early the next morning, once the immediate aftermath of Sirius has dissipated sufficiently so as to stop the hoards of sympathetic well-wishers from continuing to fuss over him, Remus returns to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. He knows that he must do so eventually; but even so, just a few hours after the death of a spouse is not usually the best time to return to the marital home.

But Remus is sensible. Remus is strong. He thinks that an unpleasant but nevertheless unavoidable chore is best gotten over with as soon as possible.

Using his key, one of only two in existence – one for the owner of the Black House, one for his partner – he unlocks the front door. It swings open, creaking. He takes a deep breath and steps across the threshold and into the cool darkness of the entrance hall. He braces himself for Mrs. Black's screams and shrieks that an impurity has entered the house, and surprisingly nears none. Instead, Mrs. Black utters one, single word.

"Remus."

"Mother-In-Law," he replies.

"I am sorry for your loss."

"And I, yours, Ma'am." Matriarch and son-in-law bow deeply to one another. When Remus looks at her portrait once more, he sees that Mrs. Black has walked out of the span of visible canvas, without another word. Touched by her unexpected politeness, he continues on into the house.

The house, like the hallway, is in a shroud of darkness, and Remus nearly trips over a large, round object which strikes his ankle sharply. Groping for a light-switch, he manages to destroy the shadows around him as he bates the hall in the electric phosphorescent glow of overhead lighting. The cause of his near accident is illuminated – a jet black motorcycle helmet, and hung on a peg next to it is a pair of leather trousers and a leather jacket, each as black as the name of their owner. Next to the helmet lie the biggest, chunkiest pair of boots that Remus has ever known.

But Remus is sensible. Remus is strong. Rather than get all irrationally upset at the sight of Sirius's "motorbike stuff", he concentrates on the happy memories with which they associate in his mind. He remembers the time when Sirius first forced him to ride that wretched bike with him.

"_C'moooon, Moony! Give it a go! Relax for once_…" Sirius's voice, the voice of a teenager merely five seconds out of school, echoes in his head.

"_No way, Pads! I'm quite fond of being alive, thank you very much."_

"_Suit yourself." And Sirius gets off the motorcycle, grabs Remus and proceeds to virtually throw him onto the pillion position, jumps onto the bike himself, and twists the throttle-bar. The bike roars down the road and takes off into the night sky. All Sirius can do is drive and chuckle at Remus's screams, obscenities and death-threats from behind him. Of course, Sirius has got to make up for his motorcycling faux-pas _very _well in bed later_…

Remus is startled out of his reverie of motorcycle experience with Sirius by a loud squawking noise floating down to him from the third floor. Of course, he must have cried out as he nearly tripped over the motorcycle helmet and woken up Buckbeak. Poor Buckbeak. Just like Sirius, he had been both condemned for doing no wrong and then imprisoned in this old house. Remus calls out to soothe the distressed hippogriff.

But Remus is sensible. Remus is strong. He will not become distressed himself at the cries of Sirius's beloved pet. Instead, he remembers how it was Buckbeak who was responsible for Sirius's escape from the Kiss; Buckbeak who allowed the two old lovers to be reunited once again. Even if it _was_ only for another year, at least it wasn't another year wasted; another year in limbo…

"_Remus! Oh, my dear, sweet Remus!"_ Sirius whispers, as Remus floats away, absent-mindedly, caught up in another daydream of memories replayed.

"_Sirius!"_

"_Can we, you know, be friends once more?"_

"_Of course, Sirius. Of course we can. You're innocent, and now you're here again. That's all that matters."_

"_Can I…" Sirius pauses, unsure of himself. "Can I kiss you?" Remus sighs in mock annoyance, as though the task is tiresome, although he has waited for this moment for fourteen years._

"_Well, if you really must…"_

And as suddenly as Buckbeak cried out, Remus comes to his senses and realises that he is standing beside the open kitchen door. The smell of stale cigarette smoke fills his nostrils; it is overpowering, almost unbearable. It is the smell of Sirius incarnate. The stink of tobacco which used to follow him everywhere. Slowly, Remus edges into the dark kitchen, his head swimming with memories – memories of all the rows and squabbles that they used to have over Sirius's smoking habit. Remus has never indulged, choosing instead to suffer from the vice of enjoying the taste of a warm red wine. But Sirius was always a devil for partaking of the evil weed.

But Remus is sensible. Remus is strong. He stands in the darkened kitchen and takes great, sniffing breaths through his nose as silly argument after stupid row play themselves out in his mind.

"_Fucking Hell, Pads! That's it!" Remus shouts as great clouds of grey smoke billow into his face from Sirius's cigarette across the coffee table in their small flat somewhere in Birmingham. "You wanna smoke – fine! Go ahead! Go and do it _outside_, man! Christ!"_

"_But it's raining, and it's cold…" Sirius sniffs, putting on that puppy-dog eyes impression that Remus just cannot resist, no matter how hard he tries to._

"_Oh, alright," he sighs in exasperation. Sirius smirks; he will have to be _extra _good in bed tonight!..._

…"_Right, Sirius!" splutters Remus in bed in their small house in Swansea. "I'm not putting up with it anymore – it's time to decide. The cigarettes, or me!"_

"_Bye, then!" Sirius waves cheerfully as Remus 'harumph!'s, knowing that he'd better brush up on his fellatio techniques for his apology later_…

…"_Okay, it's too expensive, Reems," Sirius proclaims, puffing away in the grotty bed-sit in the outskirts of Glasgow. "This is my last fag."_

"_Really?"_

"_Yup!" Sirius replies and stubs the cigarette out. He lasts nineteen hours, four minutes and thirty-nine seconds before a near murderous Remus throws a red and white box at a moody and bitchy Siris and orders him to smoke, smoke them all, and smoke them _NOW! _because he can't stand it anymore. And he knows that he will have a sore arse in the morning, after he volunteers to be bottom in bed that night to say sorry!_…

Remus snaps out of his daydream as the growling from his stomach reminds him that he hasn't eaten for nearly twelve hours. He reaches for the light-switch in the kitchen so that he can see what it is doing, meaning to make himself an early breakfast. Immediately the lamp overhead bursts to life and fills the kitchen with soft, amber light; a light which bounces off an extremely shiny object on the kitchen table and into Remus's eyes.

It is a large, crystal glass ashtray, nearly overflowing with ash and cigarette butts smoked down to their filters.

Propped up against it is a packet of twenty Marlboro cigarettes, one missing, a second pulled halfway out of the packet, tucking the lid back, ready to be smoked.

Beside the cigarettes lies a box of matches, a single match resting on top of it, ready to be struck.

Sirius's nightly ritual – to prepare the cigarette, the match and the ashtray, ready for the first smoke of the day, since Remus no longer allowed him to partake in bed.

But Remus is sensible. Remus is strong. He drags himself over to the table and reaches out to touch the ashtray. It was a present from Lily, who also used to sneak the odd ciggie or nineteen herself. Remus tries to calm himself down by replaying fond memories of Sirius laying out his cigarettes each night. But his memory-bank shows nothing but static and fills Remus's ears hear nothing but white noise.

The thought, the _realisation_, that Sirius is gone forever and will never come back now dawns on Remus and strikes him with all the forceful subtlety of a sledge-hammer aimed at the face. And with a guttural roar, Remus takes hold of the shimmering, crystal ashtray which suddenly reminds him of the Veil through which Sirius fell just six hours ago, and flings it off the table in the direction of the wall with all his strength.

It hits the stony hard wall.

_Hard_.

With a tinkling, crashing sound, it smashes onto the floor. Tears well up in Remus's eyes where they sting and run down his cheeks in great rivers. He doesn't hear his own screams and howls as he falls to his knees in the middle of the mess on the floor. He doesn't hear Buckbeak's shrieks and squawks of fear from upstairs. He grabs great handfuls of ash, cigarette butts and broken glass and throws them at the table in a vain attempt to restore it once more to its rightful place on the tabletop. He doesn't even feel the pain n his hands as the shards of razor-sharp glass dig into the sensitive palms and fingers, slicing open great welts of torn skin as the clumps of ashtray slowly smear with the resplendent red colour of his own blood as he weeps and wails over his fallen love.

For Remus has stopped being sensible. He has forgotten to be strong. He has done something which he has never, _ever_ done before.

Remus has _lost control_…

Because although a tiny bit of the simplest spellwork can repair the broken pieces of the ashtray, can bring it back to its former service, Remus knows that not even the most potent, most powerful incantation known in the world can ever restore and repair what he so badly wants to be no longer broken.

For there is no magic in existence that can ever bring his husband back to life.


End file.
